


Springs Eternal

by icarus_chained



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elves, Ents, Forests, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Post-Canon, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:29:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4230621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The Spring brought to Fangorn an elf."  Thranduil Oropherion, to be precise, heartsick and in need of healing, and sent to Fangorn by a son who knows him all too well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Springs Eternal

**Author's Note:**

> A strange, clumsy thing. I'm in an odd mood, and for some reason Ents seemed to suit it.

The spring brought to Fangorn an elf.

This was not so strange. There had been a flood of elves, these last few seasons. The Great Darkness had withered and burned in the south, a winter finally finished, and the rush of a new spring had stirred forth creatures from their burrows that Fangorn had not seen in many a century. Elves were not the least of them. The world was changing, the floods of new season sweeping away the falls of the last age and planting seeds for the new, and in that great stream there had been elvish flotsam aplenty for Ents to fish out and set back on their feet.

This one was no flotsam, though. This one was still rooted. This one sang of earth-forest-shadow-blight, of sundering-rootsplit-heartsick-strong, of spring-flowering-renewal-pain. It wore a crown of leaves and small flowers in its hair, and smelt of woods and water and stone. It was not of Fangorn, no, not familiar, but it was not so distant either. A wounded thing, and lost, but not yet uprooted.

"... I feel I should know you," Fangorn rumbled in Elvish, striding close to where the elf stood in the shadow of an oak, resting back against its bole with grateful relief. For its part, the oak did not begrudge this, and even without Fangorn's word seemed happy enough to bear its frail cousin up against itself. That spoke well of the elf, if nothing else. "You are not familiar. And yet, you are also not strange."

The elf tilted its head -his head- to look at Fangorn. There was magic wreathed about him, elf-magic, and something of earth-magic too, but it did not carry the stark, alien presence of the golden-timeless-frozen wood that had lain to the north. It bristled against the senses, a not wholly natural thing, but it was not so offensive as all that. Simply ... strange, and perhaps mildly annoying.

"You do not know me, eldest one," the elf agreed, with an odd mix of respect-deference-honour on the one hand, and dominion-shepherd-host-king on the other. A proud creature, then, but not insensible. "You may know my son, however? Legolas, my greenleaf. He came here some seasons ago, when the darkness was cast first from your lands, and then from all of them. He found welcome under your trees, and was gladdened by it."

Fangorn snorted, rearing up a little to think. So many elves, of late. And yet, he knew the one that was meant. His song was written in the father's heart, hope-heart-lively-life, courage-pain-fear-loss, love-joy-renewal-loss. My greenleaf, the father said. Hrrrm. Yes. He knew the one.

"I know him," he said, with a long, gusty sigh, pleased by the remembrance. Yes, yes, he knew the one. Bright thing, a sapling still, young and strong-hearted and kind. Sadder, when he returned, singing in part the salt-song of the sea, but weather-tested and triumphant. With the rock-hewer, the earth-cousin, his friend and the gladness of his heart. They were memorable, those two. Even for so long and deep a memory as Fangorn's. "Your son. Hrrrm. Good wood. Strong-hearted."

"Yes," the elf said softly, and his heart-song dimmed and deepened in equal measure, the joy of the present and the pain of the future. "He is the best of me, the staff that has borne me up for long years now. He was my light in the darkest of winters. I will miss him, when he sails."

Fangorn hrred a bit at that, a long creak of warning in his branches. He leaned down, brought his branch forward slowly and ponderously, enough that the elf might not be alarmed, and pressed the rough bark of his twigs against a startled chest.

"He is not gone yet," he growled, prodding pointedly. "Do not rush towards pain that has not yet arrived. _Hasty_. You are too old to be so hasty."

The elf stared at him, stunned and bemused and even affronted. Anger stirred in his heart-song, a defence for slighted dignity, and Fangorn saw then some part of what the elf-magic hid. A rotting-festering-remembering thing, an instinct that raised thorns when startled. He saw the wounds beneath this one's bark, ancient things still weeping, guarded by angry thorns, and he hummed thoughtfully at the sight. 

And then, abruptly, it faded before him, drained away and became hidden once again, and the elf shook his head with a little laugh. Not mirthful, but not without humour either. Hmm. Help-needing. Blighted and help-needing, yes.

"You will find me a very hasty thing indeed, I fear," the elf murmured, and contrived to sweep a low bow before Fangorn. "I am Thranduil Oropherion, called Elvenking, ruler of the Greenwood Elves. By elves I am called stubborn, by dwarves changeable, by men fearsome, and by my son all three, and blockheaded besides." He raised himself, and smiled an odd smile. "It is my son who sends me here, in the hopes that you might temper me as you did him, Eldest."

Fangorn harrumphed to himself, and stood upright a little to think about that. Not for too long. There had been enough quick creatures through his forests these last seasons to have awakened his sap and his stride, to have remade him into something almost fast enough to be kind. This elf was fearful enough as it was. It would not do to wound him further. Still. Fangorn thought for long enough to annoy, yes. Long enough to aggravate this hasty, wounded thing.

"... It was not 'temper' he said, I think," Fangorn said at last. Thranduil twitched, a shiver through his branches, and Fangorn nodded to himself. "He asked for healing, hrmm? He asked that you come and be healed, if it was in our power."

Thranduil paused in his turn. To think. Hrmph. Good for him. He could use more time to think, this one. A rest, as much as all else, would do him good. But his thoughts seemed more to pain him than to ease.

"I do not know why he thought I might find it here," the elf king said, after only some small moments. Hasty, still. Awakened wood, Fangorn thought, that feared to root too deeply. A huorn too used to battle, unable now to rest again. "Healing, yes. My son thinks that the war with the darkness has scarred me, Eldest, and that I feel it too keenly now that there is no fresh battle to distract me. He thinks I dwell too much in grief, and find it harder than I ought to feel the hope of this new season."

Fangorn raised bushy eyebrows at that. Keen-hearted, that sapling, and perhaps not wrong. A hasty analysis, of course, but the wounds were bare enough. Fire-scars needed no great thought to understand, and even Fangorn could see them, the heartwood around them shrivelled and weeping. This one had fought too long, and welcomed grief too quickly, even before it came.

It was too soon to say so, though. All things in their proper order. 'Twas rushing that opened old wounds once again, after all.

"There are many uprooted this season," was all he said, soft and sighing through his leaves. "Your kind especially, Thranduil Elvenking. I have seen many, these past few years. They sought a different healing than mine, and a longer journey than you have taken."

And oh, but _that_ woke something. That thought, that acknowledgement. It stirred something deep inside the elf. Fangorn saw it run through him, a wrench through the heartwood that wrought it to new alignment, that straightened his trunk and raised up proud branches in full defiance of the wounds beneath them. It was the root, though, that sang loudest of all. A heart-song full of earth and stone and water, of forest and tree, of fear and fire and defiance. A song of belonging, of root-place and heart-home, that grieved as it was sundered but would _not_ let go its bindings. Fangorn hummed, startled, and pleased as well beneath it. This was a song that spoke to him. This was a name that stretched for long seasons yet.

Rooted, yes. This strange huorn-elf was rooted still, bound to wood and wild and home, even as Fangorn himself. He had been stirred for long years, become wild and scarred beneath the darkness that had clouded them all, but he had not been torn loose. The storms of winter's passing had damaged him, but not so much as others of his kind had been damaged. There would be no salt-song for this elf. Not yet. He sang too deeply of the forest.

"I am wounded," the elf said, coldly fearsome as he said men called him. "I am not _that_ wounded. My son will take to the sea, when his time comes. I will _not_. My forest lives, though scarred, and so do my people. We will endure for many years yet, and only more so for the passing of darkness. We did not come to shadow's end only to run in fear of twilight!"

Fangorn laughed. It rumbled up from the depths of his trunk and rolled outward like the long walks of hills beneath their roots. Oh, a pleasing thing, yes. A hasty, fire-scarred thing, a huorn too used to walking, but pleasing! Like the son and his rock-hewer. A memorable thing, and a name worth speaking to its full.

"So I see," he sighed, when the laugh had run its course and there was only the huorn-elf once again, angry now and bristling with his thorns. "And not alone. Your sapling sees as well, to send you for a forest healing, when you will not have a salt-song. He knows you well, does he not? Your son. He knows you well, to send you to Fangorn."

Thranduil subsided from his affront, settling back into the earth and blinking a little in some startlement. There was a rustle through his heart-song, a changing wind through his branches. Understanding, dawning belatedly, having made its way through him at its own pace in spite of all his rushing. Hope, too, over the defensive stirring of the thorns across his wounds. A change in his weather. A hint of spring's blooming.

"... Do you think such healing is possible?" the elf asked him softly. A frail thing, fire-scarred, in need of nourishing. Rootsplit-heartsick-strong. Help-needing. _Hrrrr._ "My heart and my forest both could use it, Eldest, especially when part of us will soon be sundered by the sea." He shook his head, and smiled that not-mirthful smile. "We are in need of healing, yes. My greenleaf was right in that, at least."

Fangorn harrumphed in answer, a great, gusty noise indeed, and reached out his branches to hold them to either side of the elf. Thranduil stiffened a little, a small quickening of his sap in wariness, but he raised his arms after a moment, content to let Fangorn do as he willed. Fangorn huffed soothingly at him and wrapped long twigs around his waist, the better to heft him gently into the air and into his branches. Not dignified, perhaps. Elves were fond of dignity, and perhaps this one more than most. There were times, though, when kindness was more necessary.

"You are in need of watering," he told the huorn-elf seriously, smiling beneath his moss at the expression that greeted this pronouncement. "Good water. Nourishment. Someone must tend to your rooting place. Fire has scarred your earth, and you with it. You will heal better when it has been tended to. And you must rest. All this hurrying, this hastiness. It is not good for you. Hrrr. You need to root for a time, to grow strong again. Then, yes. I think you will heal."

The elf stared at him. Not quite affront, Fangorn thought. Too confused, too hopeful, too unwillingly amused. Thranduil, in this moment, had not the slightest idea how to answer that.

"... I am not a tree," the elf tried after a moment, smiling all unwillingly. "I don't know if you are aware of this? Elves do not answer well to being watered, Eldest. I believe I 'planted' the last creature who tried in several separate places."

Fangorn rumbled at him, moving to cradle him in the crook of one branch. He touched the other carefully to the elf's chest, resting his twig just over a wounded heart. The elf fell still. Such a wary thing, this one. Old and weary and wary. Fangorn cradled him very gently.

"You are heartsick," he told him, soft and careful and slow, so that it would be heard full proper. No more rushing. "You are heartsick and fire-scarred, and you know that you will soon be sundered. You need strength to overcome this. A place to root, to draw strength from. Heart-home, to bear you up while your sapling goes across the sea. Nourishment, so that your wood will hold your heart. The waters of this land flow deep and strong. You must taste of them, to remember where you stand. Now is not the time for rushing. Now is the time for standing, for remembering, for growing again. You cannot do this unless you let your roots grow into your earth, the better to bear you up. You cannot run ahead of this wound. You can only bear it, and heal again in its wake."

Thranduil looked away. He shook like a young aspen, trembling before a high wind, but he was neither so young nor so frail as that. He was good wood, this one. Strong-hearted, stubborn and well-planted, like his son. Weather-tested and triumphant. Fangorn saw it in him, even if he himself did not yet. This elf would not run in fear of twilight. It was not his nature.

"You will heal," Fangorn reminded again, rumbling gently. He nudged the elf's chest, strong twigs to wake a strong heart. "You are good wood, like your son. With care, with time, you will heal. You must not be _hasty_. It will come in its time. Your heart is strong, and you are well-rooted. You will last that long. Be _patient_ , hrrrr?"

It was a long, aggrieved rumble, that last. It came out of him as a sigh, but not so strong a one as it might once have been. They were aggravating things, these small, quick-moving beings. Even elves, who should know better. They had stirred him these last few seasons, though. They had quickened his sap with this new spring, and he did not find them quite so annoying as once he would have. They were harder to shepherd than even huorns, but they were ... as satisfying, perhaps. The little hobbits, the sapling and his rock-hewer, this huorn-elf cradled in his branches. They were ... satisfying, yes. Very pleasing things. When they listened.

This one was listening now, he thought. Thranduil looked up at him again, the change in him becoming slower, deeper, his thoughts as careful as they ought to be. Or close, at least. Fangorn listened to the heart-song, heard it shift and slow, pain-knowing-weariness-acceptance, loss and strength and hope. There was yearning, for heart-home and root-place, a well of longing brought on by Fangorn's words. And then, beneath it, there came a strengthening. Determination, heartwood straightening against the shadow around it, reaching upwards towards what sunlight must still remain. It boded well, for heart and home and wood. It boded well for the forest, Fangorn thought, to have its shepherd remember such strength.

"I can stay for a time," Thranduil told him. The elf rested calmly against him, content to let Fangorn bear him up for now. His sap had quickened, though. He'd stirred to wakefulness once again. "I must return to my forest before too long, however. Us hasty creatures have hasty needs. I cannot leave it unwatched too long."

"Yes," Fangorn answered peaceably, turning to stride deeper into _his_ forest, the huorn-elf easy against him. "You must return to root as well. You will heal better in your own forest. But we will water you first, I think. We will show you food and sunlight, as we showed your sapling. You will return stronger, and with knowledge to help your forest. We are tree-shepherds, hrmm? This is what we are for. Not to worry, elf-friend. We will get you sorted in your time. Not to worry."

"My thanks, Eldest," the elf offered quietly, proud and wry and weary in his branches, and Fangorn nodded happily to himself. 

Yes, he thought, a great peaceful rumble in his own heartwood. This would be a good spring, a good season, full of new and growing things. He felt good to have woken for it, to have been prodded by hasty things into lengthening his stride once more. This was a healing time, a growing time, and he was glad to be quickened by it. There was work to be done, in the wake of the darkness, and there were still Ents enough to do it, now that they had remembered themselves once more. This would be a good spring. He could feel it in his waters.

It had brought him an elf, after all, a strong-hearted thing to water and to care for, and that was a pleasing gift by far.


End file.
